Chapter III
Saxon, brooding over her problem of retaining Billy's love, of
never staling the freshness of their feeling for each other and
of never descending from the heights which at present they were
treading, felt herself impelled toward Mrs. Higgins. SHE knew; surely she must know. Had she not hinted knowledge beyond ordinary women's knowledge?
Several weeks went by, during which Saxon was often with her. But
Mrs. Higgins talked of all other matters, taught Saxon the making
of certain simple laces, and instructed her in the arts of
washing and of marketing. And then, one afternoon, Saxon found
Mrs. Higgins more voluble than usual, with words, clean-uttered, that rippled and tripped in their haste to escape. Her eyes were flaming. So flamed her face. Her words were flames. There was a smell of liquor in the air and Saxon knew that the old woman had been drinking. Nervous and frightened, at the same time fascinated, Saxon hemstitched a linen handkerchief intended for Billy and listened to Mercedes' wild flow of speech.
"Listen, my dear. I shall tell you about the world of men. Do not
be stupid like all your people, who think me foolish and a witch
with the evil eye. Ha! ha! When I think of silly Maggie Donahue
pulling the shawl across her baby's face when we pass each other
on the sidewalk! A witch I have been, 'tis true, but my witchery
was with men. Oh, I am wise, very wise, my dear. I shall tell you
of women's ways with men, and of men's ways with women, the best
of them and the worst of them. Of the brute that is in all men, of the queerness of them that breaks the hearts of stupid women who do not understand. And all women are stupid. I am not stupid. La la, listen.
"I am an old woman. And like a woman, I'll not tell you how old I
am. Yet can I hold men. Yet would I hold men, toothless and a
hundred, my nose touching my chin. Not the young men. They were
mine in my young days. But the old men, as befits my years. And
well for me the power is mine. In all this world I am without kin
or cash. Only have I wisdom and memories--memories that are
ashes, but royal ashes, jeweled ashes. Old women, such as I, starve and shiver, or accept the pauper's dole and the pauper's shroud. Not I. I hold my man. True, 'tis only Barry Higgins--old Barry, heavy, an ox, but a male man, my dear, and queer as all men are queer. 'Tis true, he has one arm." She shrugged her shoulders. "A compensation. He cannot beat me, and old bones are tender when the round flesh thins to strings.
"But when I think of my wild young lovers, princes, mad with the
madness of youth! I have lived. It is enough. I regret nothing. And with old Barry I have my surety of a bite to eat and a place by the fire. And why? Because I know men, and shall never lose my cunning to hold them. 'Tis bitter sweet, the knowledge of them, more sweet than bitter--men and men and men! Not stupid dolts, nor fat bourgeois swine of business men, but men of temperament, of flame and fire; madmen, maybe, but a lawless, royal race of madmen.
"Little wife-woman, you must learn. Variety! There lies the
magic. 'Tis the golden key. 'Tis the toy that amuses. Without it
in the wife, the man is a Turk; with it, he is her slave, and
faithful. A wife must be many wives. If you would have your
husband's love you must be all women to him. You must be ever
new, with the dew of newness ever sparkling, a flower that never
blooms to the fulness that fades. You must be a garden of
flowers, ever new, ever fresh, ever different. And in your garden
the man must never pluck the last of your posies.
"Listen, little wife-woman. In the garden of love is a snake. It
is the commonplace. Stamp on its head, or it will destroy the
garden. Remember the name. Commonplace. Never be too intimate. Men only seem gross. Women are more gross than men.--No, do not argue, little new-wife. You are an infant woman. Women are less delicate than men. Do I not know? Of their own husbands they will relate the most intimate love-secrets to other women. Men never do this of their wives. Explain it. There is only one way. In all things of love women are less delicate. It is their mistake. It is the father and the mother of the commonplace, and it is the commonplace, like a loathsome slug, that beslimes and destroys love.